


Dreams are made for fools and sages

by crookedspoon



Series: in amicitia nihil fictum est [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Dreams, First Crush, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, POV Joseph Kavinsky, POV Second Person, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 16:46:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11490534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: The act of falling asleep: childhood vs. teenage years.





	Dreams are made for fools and sages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [owltrocious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owltrocious/gifts).



> Written for #453 "Daydream" at [slashthedrabble](http://slashthedrabble.livejournal.com/1023873.html) and "The Sleeping Congregation" at genprompt-bingo round 10.
> 
> This is sort of a prequel to a Childhood Friends AU I'm writing. ~~Once I've found a vaguely fitting title, I'll create a Series for it (oh joy, _another_ one), so interested parties can subscribe to that.~~ Done.
> 
> Many thanks to Neurotoxia for the beta! <3

Pill, booze, sleep. That's how it works. That's how you get to your own private Walmart that customizes shit for you.

It's hard to remember ever having done it differently.

Dreaming has become a business and the business an excuse to continue dreaming. Circular reasoning.

It wrecks you, grinds you up, leaves you half a person. Especially when you're wired and force yourself under. Helps you stay lucid, but it muddies the boundary between waking and dreaming.

Occasionally, you think you catch a glimpse of _him_ in your dreams, but your eyes are on the prize and you're out again too quickly to really notice.

Achieving a dream-state used to be harder when you were young and hadn't yet created artificial means to in the form of pills. The whole process of falling asleep the "natural" way included hours and hours of making yourself tired enough to erase that first hurdle. You used to climb up cherry trees, go splashing in the river, chase each other over sun-dipped meadows.

You'd collapse onto the grass, skin tickled by each individual blade, sweat soaking the earth, chests heaving under the strain of your breath.

"Don't wake me" was a sacred imperative.

Years later, you stole your father's liquor and locked yourselves into your room. No one would bother you there, but keeping out unwanted guests – meaning everyone but him – gave you a sense of autonomy. 

It's still amusing that he'd sneered at you for starting to smoke, but alcohol was perfectly fucking fine. Must be the Irish blood. Or the fact that alcohol put you to sleep faster than exhaustion could.

You fought a lot during those days, good-natured fisticuffs that weren't yet saturated with the anger and frustration that has manifested since. You'd been rolling around on the grass countless times, legs entangled, sun on your backs, shirts in each other's grip, before falling asleep like that.

Doing the same in your room should have been familiar, but it wasn't. You were in an enclosed space, behind a locked door, and he was pinning you to your bed, wasted on whiskey and weed. In the dim light, his smugly triumphant stare suddenly had a different effect on you than when it was backlit by the sky. Suddenly you _wanted._ Him. Touching you. Pressing against you. Kissing you until you blacked out.

In a fit of panic, you threw him off and fled to the bathroom.

Your dad was right. You're a fucking faggot and, what's worse, had a hard-on for your best friend.

You couldn't see him again after that – not because you were afraid he'd notice your attraction and hate you for it, but because you weren't ready yet to accept yourself for what you are. And because you didn't want to prove your father right.

Fortunately, his family went on a trip to New York for the summer, so you didn't have to come up with excuses. 

It gave you time to kill ~~your heart~~ your brain at leisure.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Days Gone By" by Adema.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Find me [on tumblr](http://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/), if that's your thing. :)


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